It seemed to her that his face was paler and his mouth redder than ever, and the touch of his soft white hand was exceedingly unpleasant to her, even through her glove.
He had placed a big chair ready for her, and she sat down as she was, with her hat and veil on, and looked about. Crowdie pushed away the easel at which he had been working. It ran almost noiselessly over the waxed oak, and he turned it with the face of the picture to the wall in a corner at some distance.
The studio was, as has been said, a very large room, occupying almost the whole upper story of the house, which was deeper than ordinary houses, though not very broad on the front. The studio was, therefore, nearly twice as long as its width, and looked even larger than it was from having no windows below, and only one door. There was, indeed, a much larger exit, by which Crowdie had his pictures taken out, by an exterior stair to the yard, but it was hidden by a heavy curtain on one side of the enormous fireplace. There were great windows, high up, on the north side, which must have opened above the roof of the neighbouring house, and which were managed by cords and weights, and could be shaded by rolling shades of various tints from white to dark grey. Over it was a huge skylight, also furnished with contrivances for modifying the light or shutting it out altogether.
So far, the description might answer for the interior of a photographer’s establishment, but none of the points enumerated struck Katharine as she sat in her big chair waiting to be told what to do.
The first impression was that of a magnificent blending of perfectly harmonious colours. There was an indescribable confusion of soft and beautiful stuffs of every sort, from carpets to Indian shawls and Persian embroideries. The walls, the chairs and the divans were covered with them, and even the door which gave access to the stairs was draped and made to look unlike a door, so that when it was shut there seemed to be no way out. The divans were of the Eastern kind — great platforms, as it were, on which were laid broad mattresses, then stuffs, and then endless heaps of cushions, piled up irregularly and lying about in all directions. Only the polished floor was almost entirely bare — the rest was a mass of richness. But that was all. There were no arms, such as many artists collect in their studios, no objects of metal, save the great dull bronze fire-dogs with lions’ heads, no plants, no flowers, and, excepting three easels with canvases on them, there was nothing to suggest the occupation of Walter Crowdie — nor any occupation at all. Even the little Japanese censer in which Hester said that he burned strange perfumes was hidden out of sight when not in use. There was not so much as a sketch or a drawing or a bit of modelled clay to be seen. There was not even a table with paints and brushes. Such things were concealed in a sort of small closet built out upon the yard, on the opposite side from the outer staircase, and hidden by curtains.
The total absence of anything except the soft materials with which everything was covered, produced rather a strange effect, and for some mysterious reason it was not a pleasant one. Crowdie’s face was paler and his lips were redder than seemed quite natural; his womanish eyes were too beautiful and their glance was a caress — as warm velvet feels to the hand.
“Won’t you let me help you to take off your veil?” he said, coming close to Katharine.
“Thank you — I can do it myself,” she answered, with unnecessary coldness.
CHAPTER X.
CROWDIE STEPPED BACKWARD from her, as she laid her hat and veil upon her knee. He slowly twisted a bit of crayon between his fingers, as though to help his thoughts, and he looked at her critically.
“How are you going to paint me?” she asked, regretting that she had spoken so very coldly a moment earlier.
“That’s one of those delightful questions that sitters always ask,” answered the artist, smiling a little. “That’s precisely what I’m asking myself — how in the world am I going to paint you?”
“Oh — that isn’t what I meant! I meant — full face or side face, you know.”
“Oh, yes, — of course. I was only laughing at myself. You have no idea what an extraordinary change taking off your hat makes, Miss Lauderdale. It would be awfully rude to talk to a lady about her face under ordinary circumstances. In detail, I mean. But you must forgive me, because it’s my profession.”
He moved about with sudden steps, stopping and gazing at her each time that he obtained a new point of view.
“How does my hat make such a difference?” asked Katharine. “What sort of difference?”
“It changes your whole expression. It’s quite right that it should. When you have it on, one only sees the face — the head from the eyes downwards — that means the human being from the perceptions downwards. When you take your hat off, I see you from the intelligence upwards.”
“That would be true of any one.”
“No doubt. But the intelligence preponderates in your case, which is what makes the contrast so strong.”
“I didn’t know I was as intelligent as all that!” Katharine laughed a little at what she took for a piece of rather gross flattery.
“No,” answered Crowdie, thoughtfully. “That is your peculiar charm. Do you mind the light in your eyes? Just to try the effect? So? Does that tire you?”
He had changed the arrangement of some of the shades so as to throw a strong glare in her face. She looked up and the white light gleamed like fire in her grey eyes.
“I couldn’t stand it long,” she said. “Is it necessary?”
“Oh, no. Nothing is necessary. I’ll try it another way. So.” He moved the shades again.
“What a funny speech!” exclaimed Katharine. “To say that nothing is necessary—”
“It’s a very true speech. Nothing is the same as Pure Being in some philosophies, and Pure Being is the only condition which is really absolutely necessary. Now, would you mind letting me see you in perfect profile? I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s only at first. When we’ve made up our minds — if you’d just turn your head towards the fireplace, a little more — a shade more, please — that’s it — one moment so—”
He stood quite still, gazing at her side face as though trying to fix it in his memory in order to compare it with other aspects.
“I want to paint you every way at once,” he said. “May I ask — what do you think, yourself, is the best view of your face?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered Katharine, with a little laugh. “What does Hester think? As it’s to be for her, we might consult her.”
“But she doesn’t know it’s for her — she thinks it’s for you.”
“We might ask her all the same, and take her advice. Isn’t she at home?”
“No,” answered Crowdie, after a moment’s hesitation. “I think she’s gone out shopping.”
Katharine was not naturally suspicious, but there was something in the way Crowdie hesitated about the apparently insignificant answer which struck
“ ‘What have you decided?’ she enquired.” — Vol. I., .
her as odd. She had made the suggestion because his mere presence was so absurdly irritating to her that she longed for Hester’s company as an alleviation. But it was evident that Crowdie did not want his wife at that moment. He wanted to be alone with Katharine.
“You might send and find out,” said the young girl, mercilessly.
“I’m pretty sure she’s gone out,” Crowdie replied, moving up an easel upon which was set a large piece of grey pasteboard. “Even if she is in, she always has things to do at this time.”
He looked steadily at Katharine’s face and then made a quick stroke on the pasteboard, then looked again and then made another stroke.
“What have you decided?” she enquired.
“Just as you are now, with your head a little on one side and that clear look in your eyes — no — you were looking straight at me, but not in full face. Think of what you were thinking about just when you looked.”
Katharine smiled. The thought had not been flattering to him. But she did as he asked and met his eyes
every time he glanced at her. He worked rapidly, with quick, sure strokes, using a bit of brown chalk. Then he took a long, new, black lead pencil, with a very fine point, from the breast-pocket of his jacket, and very carefully made a few marks with it. Instead of putting it back when he used the bit of pastel again, he held the pencil in his teeth. It was long and stuck out on each side of his bright red lips. Oddly enough, Katharine thought it made him look like a cat with black whiskers, and the straight black line forced his mouth into a wide grin. She even fancied that to increase the resemblance his eyes looked green when he gazed at her intently, and that the pupils were not quite round, but were turning into upright slits. She looked away for a moment and almost smiled. His legs were a little in-kneed, as those of a cat look when she stands up to reach after anything. There was something feline even in his little feet, which were short with a very high instep, and he wore low shoes of dark russet leather.
“There is a smile in your eyes, but not in your face,” said Crowdie, taking the pencil from between his teeth. “I suppose it’s rude to ask you what you are thinking about?”
“Not at all,” answered Katharine. “I was thinking how funny you looked with that pencil in your mouth.”
“Oh!” Crowdie laughed carelessly and went on with his work.
Katharine noticed that when he next wished to dispose of the pencil he put it into his pocket. As he had chosen a position in which she must look directly at him, she could not help observing all his movements, while her thoughts went back to her own interests and to Ralston. It was much more pleasant to think of John than of Crowdie.
“I’m discouraged already,” said Crowdie, suddenly, after a long silence, during which he had worked rapidly. “But it’s only a first attempt at a sketch. I want a lot of them before I begin to paint. Should you like to rest a little?”
“Yes.”
Katharine rose and came forward to see what he had been doing. She felt at once a little touch of disappointment and annoyance, which showed that she was not altogether deficient in vanity, though of a pardonable sort, considering what she saw. To her unpractised eye the sketch presented a few brown smudges, through which a thin pencil-line ran here and there.
“You don’t see any resemblance to yourself, I suppose,” said Crowdie, with some amusement.
“Frankly — I hope I’m better looking than that,” laughed Katharine.
“You are. Sometimes you’re divinely beautiful.” His voice grew exquisitely caressing.
Katharine was not pleased.
“I didn’t ask for impossible compliments,” she said coolly.
“Now look,” answered Crowdie, taking no notice of the little rebuke, and touching the smudge with his fingers. “You mustn’t look too close, you know. You must try and get the effect — not what you see, but what I see.”
Without glancing at her face he quickly touched the sketch at many points with his thumb, with his finger, with his bit of crayon, with his needle-pointed lead pencil. Katharine watched him intently.
“Shut your eyes a little, so as not to see the details too distinctly,” he said, still working.
The face began to stand out. There was very little in the sketch, but there was the beginning of the expression.
“I begin to see something,” said Katharine, with increasing interest.
“Yes — look!”
He glanced at her for a moment. Then, holding the long pencil almost by the end and standing well back from the pasteboard, he drew a single line — the outline of the part of the face and head furthest from the eye, as it were. It was so masterly, so simple, so faultless, and yet so striking in its effect, that Katharine held her breath while the point moved, and uttered an exclamation when it stopped.
“You are a great artist!”
Crowdie smiled.
“I didn’t ask for impossible compliments,” he said, repeating her own words and imitating her tone, as he stepped back from the easel and looked at what he had done. “She’s not so bad-looking, is she?” He fumbled in his pocket and found two or three bits of coloured pastels and rubbed a little of each upon the pasteboard with his fingers. “More life-like, now. How do you like that?”
“It’s wonderful!”
“Wonderfully like?”
“How can I tell? I mean that it’s a wonderful performance. It’s not for me to judge of the likeness.”
“Isn’t it? In spite of proverbs, we’re the only good judges of ourselves — outwardly or inwardly. Will you sit down again, if you are rested? Do you know, I’m almost inclined to dab a little paint on the thing — it’s a lucky hit — or else you’re a very easy subject, which I don’t believe.”
“And yet you were so discouraged a moment ago.”
“That’s always my way. I don’t know about other artists, of course. It’s only amateurs that tell each other their sensations about their daubs. We don’t. But I’m always in a fit just before I’m going to succeed.”
Katharine said nothing as she went back to her seat, but the expression he had just used chilled her suddenly. She had received a vivid impression from the account Hester had given her of his recent attack, and she had unconsciously associated the idea of a fit with his ailment. Then she was amused at her own folly.
Crowdie looked at her keenly, then at his drawing, and then seemed to contemplate a particular point at the top of her head. She was not watching him, as she knew that he was not yet working again. There was an odd look in his beautiful eyes which would not have pleased her, had she seen it. He left the easel again and came towards her.
“Would you mind letting me arrange your hair a little?” he asked, stopping beside her.
Katharine instinctively raised one hand to her head, and it unexpectedly met his fingers, which were already about to touch her hair. The sensation was so inexpressibly disagreeable to her that she started, lowering her head as though to avoid him, and speaking sharply.
“Don’t!” she cried. “I can do it myself.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Crowdie, drawing back. “It’s the merest trifle — but I don’t see how you can do it yourself. I didn’t know you were so nervous, or I would have explained. Won’t you let me take the end of my pencil and just lift your hair a little? It makes such a difference in the outline.”
It struck Katharine that she was behaving very foolishly, and she sat up straight in her chair.
“Of course,” she said, quite naturally. “Do it in any way you like. I’ve a horror of being touched unexpectedly, that’s all. I suppose I really am nervous.”
Which was not at all true in general, though as regards Crowdie it was not half the truth.
“Thank you,” he answered, proceeding to move her hair, touching it very delicately with his pointed white fingers. “It was stupid of me, but most people don’t mind. There — if you only knew what a difference it makes. Just a little bit more, if you’ll let me — on the other side. Now let me look at you, please — yes — that’s just it.”
Katharine suffered intensely during those few moments. Something within her, of which she had never been conscious before, but which was most certainly a part of herself, seemed to rise up in fury, outraged and insulted, against something in the man beside her, which filled her with a vague terror and a positive disgust. While his soft and womanish fingers touched her hair, she clasped her hands together till they hurt, and repeated to herself with set lips that she was foolish and nervous and unstrung. She could not help the sigh of relief which escaped her lips when he had finished and went back to his easel. Perhaps he noticed it. At all events he became intent on his work and said nothing for fully five minutes.
During that time she looked at him and tried to solve the mystery of her unaccountable sensations. She thought of what her mother had said — that Crowdie was like a poisonous flower. He was so white and red and soft, and the place was so still and warm, with its masses of rich drapery that shut off every sound of life from without. And she thought of wha
t Miner had said — oddly enough, in exactly the same strain, that he was like some strange tropical fruit — gone bad at the core. Fruit or flower, or both, she thought. Either was apt enough.
The air was perfectly pure. It was only warm and still. Possibly there was the slightest smell of turpentine, which is a clean smell and a wholesome one. Whatever the perfumes might be which he occasionally burned, they left no trace behind. And yet Katharine fancied they were there — unholy, sweet, heavy, disquieting, offending that something which in the young girl had never been offended before. The stillness seemed too warm — the warmth too still — his face too white — his mouth was as scarlet and as heavy as the blossom of the bright red calla lily. There was something repulsively fascinating about it, as there is in a wound.
“You’re getting tired,” he said at last. “I’m not surprised. It must be much harder to sit than to paint.”
“How did you know I was tired?” asked Katharine, moving from her position, and looking at a piece of Persian embroidery on the opposite wall.
“Your expression had changed when I spoke,” he said. “But it’s not at all necessary to sit absolutely motionless as though you were being photographed. It’s better to talk. The expression is like—” He stopped.
“Like what?” she asked, curious to hear a definition of what is said too often to be undefinable.
“Well — I don’t know. Language isn’t my strong point, if I have any strong point at all.”
“That’s an affectation, at all events!” laughed Katharine, becoming herself again when not obliged to look at him fixedly.
“Is it? Well — affectation is a good word. Expression is not expression when it’s an affected expression. It’s the tone of voice of the picture. That sounds wild, but it means something. A speech in print hasn’t the expression it has when it’s well spoken. A photograph is a speech in print. It’s the truth done by machinery. It’s often striking at first sight, but you get tired of it, because what’s there is all there — and what is not there isn’t even suggested, though you know it exists.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 669